


Douchebaggery

by PBJellie



Category: South Park
Genre: Death is Kenny, POV Second Person, South Park Drabble Bomb, Wakes & Funerals, cannon age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Five drabbles about the new kid.Written for the May 2018 South Park Drabble Bomb.





	1. Decade

**Author's Note:**

> Day One: Decade

“A life, no matter how short, it's still a lifetime,” Father Maxi says, voice booming off of stained glass windows. He isn't using the microphone. He doesn't need it. The crowd is silent, save the occasional hiccup and quiet crying. 

You sit on a wooden bench, an old pew of a church you have never attended. “Cartman Brah” is scratched into the back of yours. There is a capless black ball point pen sitting next to a pad of donation forms. There are plenty of donation dorms, maybe enough for every family in South Park to have three. 

You take one, the rip of the paper makes the congregation look at you. How they heard it over the muffled crying of Mrs. McCormick confuses you. You rip another, and their eyes are unwavering.

Your stomach feels like it does at the top of the swings. The part where the seat goes slack beneath you and your knuckle go white gripping the chain. The moment when your ass is a half inch from the plastic, and you're sure, you're sure that you're going to fall. 

This feeling doesn't have an end though. There is no seat beneath you. Well, sure there is, a church pew, but not in another sense. If Kenny McCormick can die, anyone can. 

You could. 

You shiver, even though the church is warmer than it has a right to be. 

You didn't touch the body. You'd never touched anyone dead before. It seemed wrong to touch him, he isn't in his parka, or his super hero uniform. He's in a cheap suit, one you've never seen him in, and judging by the gangs reactions, no one else had either. 

“I'm thankful that so many people came out for this,” Mr. McCormick says into a microphone, his lips nearly touching the black mesh. You can hear his breathing through the speakers, ragged, as he fights back tears. 

He is losing. 

A group of kids, meaning everyone but Butters, is going out to Whistlin’ Willie's. To celebrate his life, a decade of Kenny McCormick. You don't think you frowned, like Kyle did, when you heard Cartman say that he planned to milk the owner for free pizza and games. 

You were invited, but it seems unfair to have all that fun as Kenny's lowered into the ground. 

But you don't want to be the outlier, not more than you already are. Let's face it, you're already the weird kid. All it takes is Scott Malcheson to die and you're the new punching bag. 

Maybe you will. You squeak your shoes on the floor as the McCormick's stand on stage. Karen is holding something, something orange. 

His jacket. 

She sees you looking, and smiles. Her mouth is moving and you try to read her lips.

“He'll need it when he comes back.”


	2. Photograph

Were your parents always like this? You look at the photograph on the entryway table. It’s the two of them, before you. Somewhere between their wedding and you coming into the fray, someone took a picture of them at the beach. 

At least you think it’s a beach. There’s sand in the background, but it could be the volleyball court at Sonic back where you’re from. You aren’t sure. 

But you are sure that they don’t look happy. And part of you is relieved. It’s a comfort, perhaps a cold comfort, that you weren’t the source of their misery. 

They had been miserable all along. 

The tells are small. Their hands are near each other, but they’re decidedly not touching. Not even a graze of their fingertips. Totally separate, from their head to their toes.

Which is how they are now, really. They’re two different people. Not that you could rank one above the other. They’re similar in that way. Unresponsive to you and your needs. Unresponsive to each other. 

Even in this picture. 

You don’t know where they are right now. They’ve been gone for a few days. The kitchen is stocked, or it was. Had they restocked it while you were at school? Do you even have to go to school? 

You supposed if they were really gone, and you weren’t just missing each other, there would be no one for the haughty secretary to call. 

You’ll go to school, anyways. You’re not allowed to use the stove, so it’s not like you can cook yourself anything substantial. School lunch is nice, compared to what you can manage. But you’ve figured out how to microwave a box of macaroni. It’s a bit chewy, some pieces completely uncooked, but it’s dinner. 

It’s a dinner where no one complains at you. Or at each other. No one complains. No one says anything. 

And you think that’s how you like it. 

You look back at the picture, the frame is a nice gold. It’s heavy in your hands. Your mother’s hair is pretty, laid flat down to her shoulders. She is a pretty person, in her own way. Like an extra in a movie. Her eyes are glazed, though. Was she drunk? 

Was she ever not drunk? 

You smile, and put the photograph down.

You hear a car pull into the driveway, or you think you do. Doors slam and you take a few steps back, stumbling to sit on the foot of the stairs. Your pants are dirty. No one has washed clothes in a couple weeks. 

It’s alright, though. The other kids think it’s your costume. Cartman said you are trying to create a new class of gross. He went on and on about how gross isn’t a superhero class, and even though you’ve saved the world, twice, he teased you. You shrugged it off, like you always do. 

The door unlocks with a click, and you stand up, toes hanging over the step you’re on. It’ll make for a quick break to your room, if you need to. The door swings open and there they are. You smell your dad before you see him, like a skunk. 

“You’re still here?” He asks, looking you up and down. 

You don’t say anything. You turn around, and race up the stairs. 

They don’t follow you.


	3. Ex

You thought that this had been settled. You were no longer friends with Al Gore. You thought that was abundantly clear. 

But there he is, scraping a branch against your window from the tree your father hasn’t trimmed. He was supposed to do that when you moved in. He bought clippers and everything. Maybe they were in the garage, next to the stuff your parents never bothered to unpack. 

The point is the tree isn’t trimmed, and Al Gore is dressed as a bear, or a pig, you’re not really sure, and sitting in the tree. 

The branch is still scraping against the glass. You try to ignore it. You just climb into your bed, and pretend there’s not a lunatic outside your window. 

You know you can take him in a fight, if you have to. It’ll be harder without your other heros, but not impossible. You were a king once, you reassure yourself. 

It’s not like he’s right at your window, anyway. He’s at least a few feet away from the actual window. He’s using his weight, bouncing up and down on the thicker part of the branch, manipulating it. 

He looks like an idiot. More than normal.

You feel your fight or flight response deflate; he’s too large to climb all the way in, the branch won’t support him any further out.

But the noise is annoying regardless. You flip onto your stomach, though it’s not comfortable, your ribcage digs into the cheap mattress. You cover your ears with your pillow, but you can still hear it. Scritch scratch. 

Scritch scratch. 

Scritch. 

Scritch. 

Scratch.

You lay still in bed, the scratching takes on a rhythm, it’s almost soothing. It’s not though. You wonder if your parents can hear it. Maybe they can, if they’re home. You’re not sure if they’re out partying, there’s always a party on some block here. A way to live your life, you guess. It wasn’t like this where you were from, but they drank and smoked just as much. 

It’s more comfortable under the guise of a party. It fits better in your mind as an adult thing that adults do, as opposed to an addict thing that addicts do. 

You suppose that Al Gore is an adult. He’s howling now, or at least it sounds like it. Maybe he’s dressed as a wolf. You don’t really care; you’re just tired and he noise is keeping you up. 

“Get the fuck outta that tree,” a neighbor shouts. “It’s the middle of the goddamn night.” 

“This is very important government business,” Al Gore calls back, and you slink out of bed and go back to the window. “I’m super serial, it’s super serial” he shouts.

Something tells you that it’s not. You don’t say anything. Communicating with him encourages him. By saying nothing you don’t give him any validation. 

“You better get out of those folks tree,” the voice screams. “This used to be a nice neighborhood, before all the riff raff moved in. Get out or I’ll call the cops.” 

“But it’s super serial,” he whines. The scratching stops. 

You try to stay up and listen for him. Maybe he just took a break, and he’d be back to making a racket in a minute. You strain your ears, and before you know it, there’s sunlight streaming through your windows.


	4. Memory

“I member,” there are grapes on your counter, and they are speaking. It's not the strangest thing you've ever experienced, but it's still strange.

“Member when gas was under a dollar?” They have faces that scrunch up when they talk. You don't remember talking grapes being a normal occurrence. Your Dad isn't saying anything about them. 

Maybe they aren't really there. 

“Oh, I member,” another grape says, or are they berries? They are in a bunch, each individual fruit bearing its own face, and presumably its own voice and consciousness. Unless they are a hive mind, like bees or ants. 

You learned that from your new teacher. She’s nice, but you actually have work to do now. She says it's a build up to the work you'll have to do later, and already, you're a bit overwhelmed. 

“Member when we had good manufacturing jobs?” 

“The Rust Belt, I member, I member.” You sigh as your father takes a puff out if a hand rolled cigarette. You know it's not a cigarette, but it's a game. If you pretend well enough, and hard enough, there are rewards.

You just haven't earned them, yet, you tell yourself.

“Yeah,” he adds, taking another hit. “Before everything moved to China. Things used to be built in America. We used to build things.” 

You don't react, but the berries do. 

“Oh, I member,” they say in chorus. .

“It's all gone to crap,” he blows smoke into your face. You don't even flinch. You never do. 

“Member when MTV played music?” 

“Yeah, I member,” your father says it a beat after the berries. They are a haunting echo of each other. For some reason, you don't move. You stay standing, watching them, listening for what's next. 

“Member when they played good music on the radio?” And the choir echos, “I member, I member,” your father included.

You want to throw the berries away. You don't remember any of these things, but still they look at you on occasion. Their eyes request your reassurance. Reassurance that the times before this were good, were better, but you don't know any other time.

Logically, this time is the best time. It's the only time you've ever really experienced.

“Member before you had kids?” They ask, and your father is nodding, eyes glazed while reminiscing. 

“Yeah,” he says, as you shift uncomfortably. “Times were better before.”

“Oh, I member,” they all say, in unison. 

You are unable to distribute your weight in a way that is comfortable, so you fidget, rocking on your feet, scratching your arm, occasionally looking to your Dad.

He's still remembering, eyes half shut as he stares out the window. You decide, after some deliberation, to go upstairs, away from the berries, and away from your father.


End file.
